Batman: Origins
by Camethcameth
Summary: Bruce Wayne, also known as the Batman, has been fighting crime on the streets of Gotham for a couple of months. Little does he know, he's about to face his biggest test: a malicious, homicidal maniac, and a cold, calculating genius, both vying for Gotham.
1. Prologue

Author's notes: This follows my own continuity of Batman, not the estbalished comics one. Some characters may have new origins, some may not. We'll see how it goes. Maybe a few original characters will get thrown in there.

May take inspiration from the Dark Knight.

**Prologue**

Welcome to Gotham City. The crime capital of America. Current crime rate: too fucking high. The police force tries its best, but when half the cops are on the take, and half are scared of the cops on the take, it becomes rather counter-productive. Any criminal that does get caught however, makes the trip across the river towards Arkham Asylum. The name implies that the place is a nuthouse, but it's really Gotham's biggest jail, the current population of which is 2,500. There are several smaller prisons, but Arkham is where the big boys go. Oh, and of course, the insane ones. It's not called the Asylum for nothing.

Our story begins at this godforsaken place on a cold, dank February night. The moon was high in the sky, giving the dark night some luminescence. A police van made its way down the long, lonely round towards the Asylum's front gates. It was a prisoner transfer van, and in the back was a petty criminal. Not even worth a name. He'd been caught running some grunt work for the mob and had been sent to Stonegate Penitentiary for the next ten years. So what was he doing travelling to Arkham? Well, a recent psychological exam had resulted him being pronounced insane. The doctor's actual words were "fucking crazy". Well, until our no name prisoner attacked him with his own letter opener. Poor doctor'll never look the same again. The prisoner rocked back and forth in his orange jumpsuit, looking around the van, at the two prison officers tasked with taking him to Arkham. They were conversing about something. Something which struck the man as odd, but at the same time... oh, so wonderful.

"Apparently, he dresses up, and goes out and fights crime." The other guard rolled his eyes, with a twinge of "bullshit" hiding behind them. "I'm not kiddin'. Jimmy Conozzo has been tellin' anyone who'll listen. Tellin' anyone and everyone about the big, black bat that sent him to prison." The other guard laughed, still obviously disbelieving. The prisoner, however, was still listening intently. He stared at the men, taking in every word. A man, going around dressed as a big, black bat? A bat-man? The pure idea sent the man into a giggling fit, which quickly caught the attention of the guards.

"What the hell's the matter with you, chuckles?" The guard moved closer to his charge, pulling his baton out slowly. The prisoner just chuckled even more to himself, eventually changing to a full blown laugh. The guard got even more annoyed, and smacked the prisoner with his baton. He went crashing to the floor of the van, still laughing. The guard quickly realised his mistake, and went to unlock the prisoner's cuffs.

"What are you doing?" the other guard asked, becoming more and more worried by the second.

"If he got free, and I beat on him, I can't get fired. I was just stopping the bad guy," he smirked, before raining down another couple of blows on the now guffawing prisoner. His comrade eventually pulled him back, and the prisoner got to his feet. He composed himself and wiped his eyes.

"I'm sorry, it's just... it sounds like Conozzo was just having a really _bat_ day." The two guards looked at each other, disbelieving. There was silence in the van, until the prisoner began cackling again. He obviously found his own joke hilarious. The guard had had enough. He wrestled free, and moved to strike the criminal again. This time, however, the prisoner was too fast for him. He pulled out a sharpened toothbrush that he'd concealed in his jumpsuit, and proceeded to stab the guard. Multiple times. He collapsed in pain, and the floor started to get a hell of a lot redder. The prisoner, still smiling, moved towards the other guard.

"Don't you just hate it when someone can't take a joke?"


	2. Newsflash

"_Police are on the lookout for a dangerous criminal who has escaped custody whilst being transferred to Arkham Asylum. A police van was found early this morning on the road leading to the Asylum, with the mutilated bodies of two guards inside. Both victims were stabbed multiple times, and then had smiles carved into their faces. Both Stonegate and Arkham are refusing to release details on the escaped prisoner, and police are asking citizens within the districts across from Arkham to lock their doors and windows, and to report any mysterious goings-on in the community. In sports news, the Gotham Goliaths won again last night-"_

Bruce Wayne turned the television off. He was midway through a delicious continental breakfast, and now, he couldn't get last night's most disturbing crime out of his head. He pushed the tray of food away, and began the long, arduous walk to his study. Being a wealthy, handsome billionaire who owned a luxurious mansion had its perks, but convenience was not one of them. He wandered down Wayne Manor's lonely hallways, in his $10,000 silk bathrobe, calling out for his butler, Alfred Pennyworth. The old Englishman peeped his head out from a room just ahead of Bruce, with a smile prepared.

"Yes, Master Bruce?" Bruce expression didn't reflect his own, Alfred's smile met with a furrowed brow and an angry scowl.

"Did you see the news this morning?" Bruce asked, without breaking stride. Alfred knew Bruce Wayne was a man of action, and had learned to keep up with him.

"Yes, I did. I believe the Goliaths are on a hot-streak."

"Not that. The murders."

"Yes, I was afraid you meant that." Alfred's cheery demeanour dissolved, as he'd fretted about what his employer was going to do since he heard the dreadful news. They strode into the study, and Bruce went over to one of the huge built-in bookcases. "Sir, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it's 7:30 in the morning."

"What's your point, Alfred?"

"Well, if you're doing what I think you're going to do, then I'm afraid your schedule is too tightly packed today. You have a board meeting in an hour and a half, lunch with one of your very lovely female companions, a prospective client meeting you at 2, and dinner with two of your very lovely female companions at 5."

"Alfred, two people have been murdered. Clear my schedule."

"Might I add, Master Bruce, that it's highly doubtful the perpetrator is walking the streets of Gotham in broad daylight, wearing an orange jumpsuit, sticking out like a sore thumb? And further to that, in the harsh light of day, you yourself are not entirely unnoticeable? And my final point; you are trying to keep the legend of the Batman just that? A legend. The last thing we need, if you're going to continue this vigilante nonsense, is full media coverage on it?" The old man's advice somehow got through to Bruce, and he moved away from the bookcase.

"Alright, Alfred, point taken." Bruce began to saunter up to his bedroom to get changed for his board meeting. Alfred chuckled to himself, and set off to return to work. Bruce peered back around the door. "Oh, and Alfred?"

"Yes, Master Bruce?"

"Cancel dinner. I'll be busy at 5." The butler sighed to himself. Bruce Wayne knew an awful lot about responsibility, but wasn't too bright when it came to maintaining a sufficient disguise.

"Master Bruce, if you want to maintain the image of billionaire playboy so as to deflect suspicion from your nightly activities, I suggest you keep your dinner date with the two supermodels. The perpetrator will still be around afterwards."

"I know, Alfred. The question is, will anyone that crosses him?" Alfred conceded to this, and picked up the phone.

"Miss Kerr? It's Alfred Pennyworth, Master Wayne's butler. I'm afraid I have some bad news."


	3. Dishonesty

Mickey Conozzo was scared. This is important, because Mickey Conozzo wasn't scared of anything. Fear isn't something you should be feeling when you're part of a criminal gang. He was waiting for his boss to call him in. Well, his boss' boss. Mickey had never met this man before. He'd heard horror stories, of course. But there was a strict chain of command, which meant unless Mickey was bumped up, he'd never meet his boss' boss. If he was bumped up, that meant he was doing a good job, so he had no need to be scared. However, he hadn't been promoted. He and his brother Jimmy were charged with a very special mission by their boss. They had been asked to put together a crew, and rob the Gotham National Bank. Easy, for seasoned pros like the Conozzos. They'd done it a thousand times before. Nothing as big, but still, a piece of cake. That is, until some freak running around in a bat costume decided to stick his nose in. He took out the crew in less than a minute. Mickey had the good sense to run, while the bat-man was busy. Jimmy was less fortunate. He stood his ground, for all the good it did him. Now, he was rotting in Stonegate Prison. But who's the lucky one? Mickey, who managed to escape? Or Jimmy, who doesn't have to deal with the biggest boss there is?

His concentration was broken by the arrival of a small, balding, creepy looking man, carrying a big appointment book. He was dressed in a very expensive suit, which probably made him look far more impressive than he actually was. He walked over to Mickey. "Mr. Conozzo. We're very glad you could make it. My name is Julian Day. I am Mr. Nashton's right-hand man." This was the first time Mickey had heard the boss' name. Nashton didn't sound like a very intimidating name. Then again, as they say, what's in a name?

"Yeah, it's, uh.. it's no problem, Mr, Day, but I am actually kinda busy… I've got work to do and stuff… I was wondering if maybe we could do this some other time, you know, when it's less hectic for me? I'm sure Mr. Nashton is too busy to talk to me."

"I'm afraid that's not possible. Mr. Nashton is fully booked up for a good, long while."

"Haha, how do you know, you didn't even check your book there."

"I'm good with days, Mr. Conozzo. I'm afraid now's the only time Mr. Nashton can see you. Follow me, please."

Mickey gulped down some air, and followed Julian Day through ornate double doors, into the boss' office. Mickey surveyed the room as he entered. It was fairly dark. He could make out portrait frames, bookshelves, plants. Even a few windows, with the curtains closed. Mr. Nashton was sat at his desk, in a suit that looked even more expensive than Julian's, with a bright green tie. There was another man in the room, standing behind Mr. Nashton. He easily stood over seven feet, but that was all Mickey could see of him. He was shrouded in shadow.

"Mr. Conozzo, it's good to finally meet you. My name is Edward Nashton. You may have heard of me? I own and operate Nashton Pharmaceuticals, Inc." Mickey couldn't believe his eyes. This was a guy who kissed babies and shook hands for a living. He was the leader of a criminal empire? He was contemplating this, when Nashton's voice snapped him out of his shock. "Would you please take a seat?" He turned to Julian. "Thank you, Mr. Day, I can handle it from here." Julian nodded, and left the room. Mickey could've sworn he saw a smile creep across the creepy little bastard's face.

"Mr. Nashton, I just wanna say, it wasn't my fault. It was the bat-man, he came out of nowhere-" Nashton raised a hand.

"Ah yes, the bat-man. I believe your brother has the same excuse. Mr. Conozzo, I didn't get to where I am today by accepting excuses. If I ask for a job to be done, it gets done, or the person who fails me gets fired." These words turned Mickey's stomach. He had a family to feed. "I'm a man who likes honesty, and results. This… bat-man malarkey you and your brother are trying to feed me… it makes me a very angry man." Mickey winced in his chair. Nashton leant forward, and looked Mickey directly in the eye. "I hate liars, Mr. Conozzo…" Mickey was visibly fidgeting now.

"…which is why I had your brother killed last night."

Mickey's eyes widened. He felt like he had been punched in the gut. Jimmy was dead? He flung himself out of his chair, and turned to run for the door. Unfortunately, the door was now blocked. Nashton's associate had somehow gotten behind him. He didn't even see him move. What kind of man can do that?

"Now, I was going to give you a chance, Mr. Conozzo. Can I call you Michael? We can surely dispense with the pleasantries. I was going to let you leave this office intact. But you lied to me. Your own ineptitude got your brother caught, and got you in this office. There's no such thing as a man running around, dressed as a bat. And because you couldn't own up…" Nashton trailed off. Mickey looked up at the man blocking his path. He looked like he had some sort of skin condition. Like, his skin was all peeling away. Mickey tried to push away. That's when he felt it. It wasn't peeling skin. It felt like… scales?

"Waylon? Deal with this."

Mickey felt gargantuan hands close around his head. He felt immense pain, and his life draining away. The scaly man was crushing his skull. Within seconds, it was over. Mickey slumped to the floor. Nashton looked down at Mickey, and shook his head. He returned to his desk to grab his briefcase.

"Waylon, get someone to clean this up, please. I have a meeting to attend in a few hours."


	4. Teeing Up

Bruce pulled up to the golf course at 2 o'clock sharp. The bright blue Mercedes sparkled in the sunlight, as he handed his keys to the valet, along with a hefty tip. He strode over to the front desk, clubs over shoulder, where a bubbly young woman by the name of Candace was waiting.

"Bruce Wayne. I'm teeing off with a Mr…" Bruce faltered. He racked his brain for the name of the client. It wasn't like he was paying any attention when Alfred rang off his schedule. All that was on his mind was the psychopath currently roaming the Narrows. Suddenly, a name popped into his head. "Ah, yes. Mr. Nashton." He held out his membership card, as Candace searched the computer for his booking.

"Ah, here we are. Mr. Wayne and Mr. Nashton. Mr. Nashton is already waiting in the clubhouse café. Will you be needing a caddy, sir?"

"No, thank you. I'll caddy for myself," Bruce said, as he began his journey to the café. He could've sworn Candace may have stolen a glance as he walked away. He allowed a smirk to cross his face. Bruce entered and surveyed the café. It was a sea of white clothing, from wall to wall. With one very apparent exception. Dead centre was a man in a bright green shirt, and dull, green trousers. Bruce recalled an article he once read on Nashton, and he certainly remembered it declaring him as… rather unique, in terms of fashion. Putting two and two together, he walked over to the table. "Edward Nashton?" He extended his hand, and the other man took it earnestly. "I'm Bruce Wayne."

"Well, if it isn't Gotham's golden boy himself! Bruce, how are you?" Nashton exclaimed, slapping Bruce hard on the back. Bruce was taken aback. This man was getting overly personal fairly quickly. He put on a smile, and offered a fairly standard 'couldn't be better', before the two of them, accompanied by Nashton's caddy, set out onto the green. "Now, Bruce. I'm not being too informal, am I? I like to think business partners can be friendly."

"We aren't business partners yet, Mr. Nashton," Bruce said, sternly. He saw a slight grimace cross Nashton's face, before settling back into a smile.

"Too true… Mr. Wayne. Forgive me for talking shop so early, but I can see you're a man who likes to get to the point. My company, Nashton Pharmaceuticals, is the leading supplier of medicine throughout America. Bigger even than your sister company, Wayne Medical."

"I'm well aware of the statistics. You certainly do turn over one hell of a profit, Mr. Nashton."

Nashton sensed a little suspicion in his voice. "Yes, we do make quite a lot of money. However, we're looking to go international, and while, of course we have the money, we certainly don't have the contacts. Well, until this meeting!" He laughed and slapped Bruce on the back again. "What we're looking for from you, Bruce, is services in return for payment. We'd pay handsomely for use of Wayne Shipping's trade routes and shipping services, as well as use of your enormous web of contacts all around the globe."

Bruce stopped in his tracks. "Mr. Nashton, while this all sounds like a good business deal for the both of us, I have some reservations." Nashton's face soured.

"What kind of reservations?"

"First and foremost. My father spent years building up his business contacts, and that is work that I have continued to undertake ever since I became CEO of Wayne Enterprises. I would hardly introduce them so readily to a man I barely know. Especially when what I have heard of him involves criminal dealings."

"What? Criminal dealings, Mr. Wayne? I think you had best pick your words very carefully from here on in. I am not some lackey you can speak down to. I am the head of the largest pharmaceutical company in America!"

"Mr. Nashton, I had my staff check your company out the second this meeting was booked. Your books don't balance. Which certainly makes me inclined to believe these shady rumours. I came down here as a courtesy, Mr. Nashton. I never had any intention of allowing you access to any part of my company. Please, enjoy the rest of your golf game. Wayne Enterprises will pick up the tab."

Nashton fumed as Bruce walked away. He pulled a cellphone out of his pocket, and speed-dialled a number. "Waylon. Mr. Wayne didn't like my proposal. I need you to visit Wayne Manor tonight, and personally air our grievances." A grunt sounded on the other end of the line, and it went dead. Nashton began whistling, his mood greatly improved. "I will get access to those routes, Wayne. Even if it's over your dead body."


	5. A Horrible Visitor

Back at Wayne Manor, night was beginning to fall. Bruce was already down in the Batcave, getting ready for his nightly prowl. He was in full costume, tinkering with his latest gadget, a grapple claw, when Alfred walked in behind him. He didn't have the best of expressions on his face, and was carrying a phone. "Master Bruce, Mr. Allen is on the phone," he said, a hint of exasperation in his voice. George Allen was a very short, very angry major shareholder in Wayne Enterprises. Bruce could hear the sound of his forehead vein swelling up over the phone.

"I'm busy, Alfred. I'm about to go out."

"Master Bruce, while I understand your decision to refuse Mr. Nashton's proposal, the board doesn't. Perhaps it's best to take five minutes to explain." Bruce acquiesced to his butler's request, and took the phone.

"Mr. Allen. To what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Wayne! What's all this about us not taking Nashton's proposal? I was mortified when I heard how you treated him on the links today!"

"George, the man has very, very visible criminal ties. It's not in the company's interest to consort with people like that."

"Those rumours of criminal dealings are just that! Rumours! I demand you set up another meeting, this time with the full board!"

"George, let me be frank. While I own 51% of Wayne Enterprises' shares, Mr. Nashton will never deal with any part of this company. Have a good night." Bruce clicked the end call button, and handed the phone back to Alfred. The butler started to roll his eyes, stopping when he caught the look Bruce was giving him. "Alfred, what would you have me do? There's no reasoning with Allen."

"That may be true, Master Bruce, but you could certainly be a little less curt when you speak to the men that control the future of your company."

"Noted, Alfred," Bruce said, half-heartedly, whilst looking at his computer screen. An icon was flashing. "That would be my cue. The sun's gone down, and it's time for Batman to go and capture an escaped lunatic. Wish me luck."

"Good luck, sir," Alfred offered. Bruce climbed into the Batmobile, and was soon off on his way. Alfred listened to the roar of the impressive vehicle, becoming duller by the second. He sighed a little to himself, making his way back up the stairs of the Batcave into Wayne Manor. He had many jobs to attend to; dusting, wiping, tidying. General butler duties. He headed to the pantry to collect his feather duster, when Wayne Manor's incredibly loud doorbell echoed through the house. Abandoning his quest for the duster, he walked over to the mansion's front door, and upon opening it, received the shock of his life. Standing on the other side of the threshold was a huge, hulking man, easily over seven feet, wearing a fedora and trench coat. Thanks to his clothing and the darkness, Alfred couldn't make out any other features. "G-good evening, sir. May I help you?"

"Bruce Wayne," the figure said. Well, growled. Alfred was rather taken aback.

"I'm s-sorry, sir, but Master Wayne is currently out. May I take your name, or a way to reach you, for when he returns?" Alfred asked. The figure stared at him for a few seconds, before turning away, and back into the rain. Alfred watched him walk down the path, before tentatively shutting the door. He shivered slightly. Something about that man just made him uneasy.

Outside, the man pulled out a cellphone and dialled a number.

"Bruce Wayne isn't home. The butler is."

"Well, leave a message with the butler, then." The phone clicked, and the man turned back around, and headed back towards the door. He rang the doorbell again, and waited. Alfred look back at the stained glass window in the door. His every nerve was screaming at him to just ignore the huge fellow at the front door, but the butler in him wouldn't allow it. He headed back towards the door. Just as he was about to open it, the whole door came flying off of it's hinges, and straight at him. He dodged, but the door managed to wing him, sending him flying to one side. The large man was advancing upon him. Alfred looked around, looking for any way to safety. Behind him was a closet. Not just any closet, though. Alfred threw the door open and climbed in, pressing a small button on the wall as he did so. Steel sheets coated the inside of the closet. Wayne Manor had a number of these panic rooms throughout the house, thanks to Bruce's new obsession. Huge fists rained down on the door, but thankfully, they had little to no effect. Alfred tried to stand up, but a sudden pain shot its way down his leg. In all the excitement and terror, he hadn't even noticed, he'd broken it. Adrenaline, and sheer self-preservation will do that to you. The fists continued to pound against the door, before eventually subsiding. He checked the CCTV monitor in the closet. The giant seemed to be on the phone. The conversation last a couple of seconds at most, before he put the phone down, and took out a small envelope, and left it outside the closet door. He then left the way he came in. Alfred, ever the cautious individual, decided it was best to stay in the closet until Master Bruce came back. All he could think about was the mess he'd have to clean up.


	6. The Envelope

The Batmobile roared it's way back into the Batcave after a long, hard night of searching. The Batman had taken care of four run-of-the-mill muggers, a crew of seven bank robbers and finished it all off with a homicidal maniac. It certainly wasn't the one he'd been out looking for, however. As such, Bruce felt defeated. He climbed out of the car, and brooded over to the computer. He wouldn't rest until he'd found the convict, no matter how many nights it took him. He checked the news, to see if any bodies had turned up. If there had, nobody was reporting it. Bruce thanked his lucky stars, before noticing something on one of the manor's CCTV cameras. The foyer was in absolute disarray. He quickly bolted his way upstairs, into the manor, to find the door blown off it's hinges.

"Alfred!" Bruce called out. "Alfred! Where are you?"

Alfred saw Bruce on the CCTV in the closet, and pressed the button he'd originally pressed as he'd climbed in. Bruce ran to the old Englishman's aid. "Master Bruce, it's so very good to see you."

"What happened here?" Bruce asked, noticing Alfred's leg.

"A very unruly visitor, Master Bruce. He came looking for you. Asked for you by name."

"Can you tell me anything about him, Alfred?"

"Not much, sir. He did a very good job of concealing himself from me. All I can tell you is that he shouldn't be too hard to find." Bruce looked at him, inquisitively. Alfred smiled. "He was well over seven feet tall, sir."

"Seven feet? I'll run it through the police database on our computer. Now, we have to get you to the hospital."

"One last thing, sir. He left that envelope, there by the closet door," Alfred pointed. Bruce looked over. A small, green envelope. He picked it up and examined it. No return address, no stamp, just "Wayne", emblazoned over the front. He stopped himself from looking at it any further, deciding Alfred was more important. He picked up the phone, and dialled 911.

Hours at Gotham Emergency had passed, and Bruce wheeled Alfred back into Wayne Manor, a large blue cast on his leg. "From today, until you get back on your feet, Alfred, I'll be your butler."

"Nonsense, Master Bruce. While I can't get up onto the higher floors, I can certainly manage myself down here."

"Even so, if you need anything, don't hesitate to call," Bruce insisted, which received a curt nod from the butler. "Now, if you won't be needing anything, I have an envelope to inspect." Alfred smiled and waved him away. Bruce eagerly sauntered down the Batcave, thoughts swimming in his mind. Ws this an attack on Bruce Wayne, or the Batman? He placed the envelope in a small machine. The computer analysed everything about it, from weight, right down to fingerprints, of which Bruce could find none. Thankfully, the machine couldn't find any trace of explosives or poisons either, which Bruce took as a sign that it was safe to open. Inside was a scrap of paper, with letters from various publications cut and pasted, much like a ransom note.

"WHAT IS EIGHT FEET TALL, TREMENDOUSLY STRONG, AND IS GUNNING FOR YOU, BRUCE WAYNE?"

Bruce flipped the letter over. "A riddle?"

"MY ASSOCIATE."

He sighed to himself. Underneath the "punchline", there seemed to be a signature. "Enygma." He could deduce a few things from the letter. One, the man who wrote it wasn't particularly funny. Two, the man who came to his house wasn't working alone. Finally, the man was looking for him, not the Batman. He sat back, and gasped a sigh of relief. One shining light, at least. He turned to the computer, and pulled up the CCTV footage of the attack. The man kept himself pretty much out of full view, and Bruce could only really see him from behind. He was absolutely huge. He immediately began to sympathise with Alfred's fear, and commend his quick thinking. He was about to adjourn to his room for some rest, when the man turned around, and caught the camera's gaze, ever so quickly. Bruce could barely contain his shock. This was no man that attacked Alfred. In fact, the closest Bruce could come to describe him was… a walking crocodile?


End file.
